Kross stood before the council and delivered his report without theatrics.

  “Only five from our test dive showed clear potential to become full-fledged explorers,” he said. “The rest failed to stay composed and panicked. I recommend they be redirected—city guard duty, support crews, or loot-hauler positions.”

  Locke, standing beside him, exhaled through his nose. “That concludes all groups. Biggest turnout of applicants this year…” His tone sharpened with frustration. “…and the worst pass rate. Ironically appropriate.”

  A man of great influence leaned forward, fingers steepled.

  Callum Thornvale.

  “This was one of our concerns,” he said. “Parents sending their children to the explorer school chasing a payout.” His eyes moved across the table. “Now we have to decide how to handle it.”

  The chamber stirred immediately—voices rising, overlapping, colliding.

  At the center sat an elongated council table, shaped like something meant for formal dinners but built for war decisions. Ten council members lined its length. Some were veteran explorers who’d earned their seats through blood and survival. Others held their positions through wealth—the coin-backed, as some liked to whisper. And then there were figures like Callum: privileged, yes, but also respected for the authority he carried and the impact he’d made inside the city.

  At the head of the table sat the Grand Councillor of the Guild.

  Mortreaver. The greatest explorer in history.

  The debate grew louder.

  “Dismantle the school.”

  “Restrict entry to the elite.”

  “Make the school pay-walled.”

  “Stop wasting resources on dreamers.”

  Lara’s expression tightened as the arguments leaned in one direction—cutting the middle-class out, quietly, cleanly, as if it was only accounting.

  She raised her voice over the chatter. “Among the students was a novice who killed a B-grade predator alone.”

  A council member scoffed. “Then he must already be elite.”

  “And five more,” Lara continued, voice steady, “who could think, follow orders, and act under pressure—under conditions that should’ve ended in deaths. They defeated a Wolfmonger, an A-grade predator.” Her eyes swept the room. “All five came from that school.”

  Callum folded his arms. “That could have been a freak accident.” He paused, deliberate, then turned his gaze to Kross. “As an examiner—what do you think?”

  Kross’s throat tightened for a moment at being called out in a meeting outside his usual jurisdiction. Then he steadied himself and answered with calm confidence.

  “Compared to last year, our novices showed far more restraint,” he said. “Even those trying to overachieve maintained discipline. They followed orders when adrenaline demanded chaos.” He looked around the table once. “The kind of discipline they demonstrated is learned. Not inherited. Not bought.”

  An entitled man spoke sharply. “The cost is still too high with so many failures. We should restrict the number of students.”

  Callum didn’t argue. He simply asked, “And how do you propose we do that?”

  Suggestions erupted instantly.

  “Only those who can pay!”

  “Only those with family records!”

  “Only those with talent!”

  Lara's jaw clenched. "…" Before she could speak, another man stood.

  It was someone who held certain respectable aura with a thorny redrose on his jacket. "The problem isn’t money,” he said. “It’s waste. Too many students with no chance of surviving outside the walls. That’s what drains the school.”

  Shouting from those who wanted to sediment status as a prerequisite were becoming louder.

  Redthorne continued. "We need to choose talent, but only carefully not to lose diamonds in the rough because of their status."

  As more shouts were about to be expressed. Silence commenced as Mortreaver stood up.

  “A sound compromise,” he said. His voice wasn’t loud, but it owned the room anyway. “We reduce waste at the school. We only take those who show potential to become explorers—regardless of origin.”

  A few faces twisted in displeasure, but no one rushed to challenge him. Not without a smarter argument than pride.

  “This cuts cost,” Mortreaver continued, “and improves success rate. And it prevents the council from turning the Guild into a private club.”

  Locke glanced around. “Seems everyone accepts the Grand Councillor’s decision.” He let out a slow breath. “Any other matters regarding this year’s exam?”

  No one spoke.

  The meeting adjourned. Chairs scraped back. Council members began to file out.

  As Kross turned to go, Locke caught his arm. “Come. The Grand Councillor wishes to speak with you.”

  They entered Mortreaver’s private chambers.

  The room was dim, warmed by sunlight pouring through a wide open window behind the desk. Predator heads lined the walls—trophies from a lifetime of hunts. A massive desk sat buried beneath paperwork. An unlit fireplace rested against one wall.

  In the far-left corner stood an empty pedestal—clean, deliberate—reserved for a weapon.

  Lara was already seated across from Mortreaver, arms folded, irritation visible in every line of her posture.

  “I can’t believe they tried to push the commoners out of the school,” she said. “Those pigs only care about their pockets.”

  Mortreaver replied calmly, “They wanted the school because it made training their own children easier. It backfired when costs ballooned.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “This solution limits admissions without making it a school ‘for the privileged.’ They can’t oppose it without exposing themselves.”

  Lara scowled. “What about Callum? You always said he was decent—despite how he looks.”

  Mortreaver nodded. “He is. He defended the school’s usefulness without alienating the council members who follow him. Then he guided the discussion without giving them a clean excuse to call him soft.”

  Locke added, “Callum cares about power. But he knows if he makes decisions that only benefit the wealthy, his authority won’t last.” He glanced toward Mortreaver. “That’s why he supported bringing you in—to create balance, so the council can still make optimal decisions.”

  Mortreaver looked toward Kross. “Stop standing by the door. Sit.”

  Kross didn’t move. “It’s fine, Grand Councillor. What do you need from me?”

  Mortreaver didn’t press him. Instead, his tone shifted—subtler, more personal.

  “I wanted to ask about a novice,” he said. “Someone with a particular look in his eyes.”

  Kross smirked, knowing immediately who he meant. “The one with the look.”

  He spoke slowly, choosing his words like he was reporting something dangerous.

  “He’s unique. The resolve in his eyes…” Kross’s expression tightened. “I hadn’t seen anything like it. It made me shiver. Sam told me he didn’t hesitate even when face-to-face with a Wolfmonger.” He paused. “His body shook, yes. He was brash, yes. But his will and heart were undeniable.”

  Mortreaver’s eyes gleamed.

  “Locke,” he said. “Check if he already has a master. What’s his name?”

  Kross spoke before Locke could even move. “He said he already has a master.”

  His eyes flicked—briefly—to Lara.

  Mortreaver followed the glance and paused. “...You know this kid?” he asked, looking directly at her.

  Lara grinned, unapologetic. “I went to watch the exam out of boredom and found him.” Her grin sharpened. “I grabbed him and told him he’s my slav… pupil now. And that he has to listen to everything I say.”

  Mortreaver’s mouth curled into a twisted smile. “You finally took on a pupil.”

  Then his gaze narrowed, pleased in a way that was almost unsettling.

  “And it had to be the first one in years to get my heart beating again.”

  Lara shrugged, almost playful. “You’re the one who told me to take on a student.”

  Mortreaver sighed—but there was warmth behind it. “It’s for the best. I’m getting too old for this anyway.”

  Then his voice dropped, darker.

  “Make sure he’s ready for everything,” he said to Lara. “Even if you have to break him.”

  Lara nodded, her smile just as sharp.

  Kross and Locke exchanged a glance.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  That poor bastard has no idea what kind of hell he signed up for.

  As Kross turned to leave, he hesitated. Then he asked, quietly, “Isn’t it strange we’re seeing higher-grade predators closer to the city?”

  Mortreaver’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes sharpened.

  “It is,” he admitted. “But worry not. We’re already looking into it.”

  Kross nodded, excused himself.

  "Locke, so this is Kross."

  "Yes master," Locke answered.

  "So, he is not only talented but can hold his own. Lets give him more responsibilities."

  * * *

  Outside the Explorer’s Guild, Kross’s group—the ones who had faced a Wolfmonger—stood off to the side of the street, talking in a loose circle. The city moved around them like nothing had happened, but the novices still carried yesterday on their faces: bruises, bandages, and that strange, quiet pride that came from surviving something that should’ve broken them.

  “You’re really quitting, Tikai?” Dru asked.

  His tone wasn’t accusatory—just surprised. “Kross said it was an impossible situation, and you still held your ground and followed orders.”

  Tikai rubbed the back of his neck, eyes lowering. “I failed to actually fulfill those orders.” He forced a small smile. “Thanks for your concern, but… I felt my limit. I can’t pretend I’m braver than I am.”

  Dru opened his mouth to argue—then stopped himself. Instead, he smiled, and gave Tikai a respectful nod.

  Zill tilted his head. “So what are you going to do now?”

  Tikai looked up, calmer now that he’d made the decision. “I’m going back to my father’s forge.” His gaze slid briefly to Twin Reaper. “Your weapon, Zill… it gave me inspiration.”

  He spoke more firmly as he went on, like he’d finally found something solid to stand on.

  “I wanted to become an explorer to break away from my family. To find my own path.” He exhaled. “Now I think I can do that by creating weapons—ones as unique as yours. Weapons only a select few can actually wield.”

  Zill’s grin turned proud. “Then let me be the first to see whatever you forge.”

  Tikai gave a small wave and started walking off.

  “Can’t say I’m surprised,” Mel said, watching him go. “Ever since I’ve known him, he couldn’t hurt a fly.”

  Zill sighed, putting his hands behind his head. “I’m happy he found something he loves… but if I had his size, I’d be a solo explorer in a week.”

  “Dream on,” Violet muttered.

  “What? I’m telling you—I’ll be solo within a year. Just watch.”

  Violet’s mouth twitched. “Sure. Solo explorer? Maybe.” She looked him up and down. “But height? That battle’s already lost.”

  Dru and Mel both started giggling.

  Zill’s face flushed as he scrambled for a comeback—and found none.

  Then—

  A hand reached for Twin Reaper.

  Zill reacted instantly, sliding back like his body moved before his mind could. The chain clinked as he put space between them.

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  The man who’d reached for it blinked, then lifted both hands in surrender. He looked ordinary at first glance—casual clothes, unremarkable posture—until you noticed the eyes. The kind of eyes that measured weight, balance, and danger without meaning to.

  “Ah—sorry,” he said lightly. “I have an odd habit I can’t quite control.”

  Violet laughed. “Grabbing other people’s weapons is your habit? Hasn’t that ever caused you trouble?”

  “Oh, many times,” the man replied, unfazed. “But I can handle myself.”

  Then his attention sharpened on Twin Reaper, like the rest of the street vanished.

  “…I recognize that build,” he murmured. His fingers twitched as if they wanted to check the edge. “Wait. That curve… that chain anchor…”

  Zill narrowed his eyes. “Are you Lara’s brother?”

  The man’s face brightened immediately, smug satisfaction blooming. “Aha! I told her it would be useful someday.”

  Dru cleared his throat politely. “Sorry—what’s your name?”

  The man straightened as if he’d remembered manners mid-thought. “Right. How rude of me.” He gave a half-bow that was more playful than formal. “I’m Eiden Draevenhart. Weaponsmith. Better known as Lara’s younger brother.”

  Then he turned back to the weapon without shame, speaking like he was already deep in his own world.

  “So?” he asked Zill. “How does it feel? The curvature should make deflections smoother—less impact, more slide. And the chain—too long?” He squinted. “I could shorten it if it’s tripping you.”

  Zill smiled. “No complaints. It held up even against a Wolfmonger. I could redirect its strikes.”

  Eiden’s eyes gleamed. “Beautiful.” He circled the weapon like it might answer questions if he stared hard enough. “These weapons are like my children. I can’t help tweaking them.”

  Then he sniffed once, dramatic. “And I can smell it from here.” He pointed at the scythes. “A bit of neglect. Probably sat too long in the armory.”

  Zill blinked. “I guess.”

  Eiden nodded, completely satisfied with himself. He motioned toward the Guild. “Come on. Let me give it a proper look in the forge.”

  He turned and started walking into the building like it was the most natural thing in the world.

  Violet leaned toward Zill. “I think he wants you to follow.”

  “And honestly,” she added, “we probably should too. He’s Lara’s brother. If he’s here, it’s worth having him look at our gear.”

  “But weren’t we waiting here for the meeting to fini—” Zill started.

  Too late.

  They were already following Eiden.

  Zill rushed after them, indignant. “Hey! He’s looking at my weapon first!”

  * * *

  Beneath the Explorer’s Guild, the forge sprawled like a second world—vast enough for a dozen smiths to work at once. Multiple stations lined the floor, each built to process predator materials of different grades, from common E-rank scraps to apex remains that needed special tools just to cut. In the walls holes continued to the outside allowing fresh air in.

  Heat rolled through the space in slow waves. Furnaces glowed. Hammers rang in distant rhythm. The air tasted of soot, hot metal, and oil.

  Weapons waited everywhere—stacked for repairs, hung for inspection, laid out half-finished on benches.

  One stood apart from the rest.

  A massive scythe, tall and curved, its presence unmistakable—Mortreaver’s weapon. It wasn’t displayed like a trophy, yet it felt like one.

  Eiden led them past several empty stations until he reached one tucked near the back—clearly his favorite workspace. Tools were arranged in a very specific disorder that only made sense to him.

  Violet offered her bow first.

  “Ah. A bow,” Eiden murmured, turning it carefully. His fingers traced the limbs and string with surprising gentleness. “Steady. Balanced. Whoever made this cared.”

  Pride softened Violet’s face. “It was my uncle’s. He was a great explorer. He passed it down to me.”

  Eiden studied the engravings, then nodded. “A-grade predator material.” His thumb brushed a mark near the grip. “And this stamp… Aurenstahl forge.” He handed it back. “Nothing for me to do. They built it right.”

  Violet’s shoulders dipped with a flicker of disappointment.

  Eiden noticed immediately. “Don’t look so down,” he said. “Perfect condition is a compliment. If there were something to improve, I would.”

  Zill lifted Twin Reaper eagerly. “Now look at mi—”

  Eiden walked right past him and snatched Mel’s daggers instead.

  “Oh,” Mel was startled.

  Eiden squinted at the edges. “Decent material.” He tested the balance with a tiny spin. “But they’re worn too far. These need replacing.”

  Mel gave an awkward smile. “Yeah. I was going to grab something from the free armory now that I’m accepted.”

  “The mass-produced ones are fine,” Eiden said. “Just… average. They’re made to fit everyone, which means they don’t truly fit anyone.”

  He caught the tension behind Mel’s eyes—quiet frustration, quiet pride.

  Then his tone softened, just slightly. “I can fetch you a pair from Lara’s armory. I made them. They’ll be better.”

  Mel’s eyes lit up, the excitement catching her by surprise. “Really?!” She cleared her throat, trying to look composed again. “Thanks.”

  Eiden smiled warmly—then turned to Dru.

  “A shield,” he said, eyebrow lifting. “No weapon?”

  Dru rubbed his neck. “I… can’t really use one.”

  “Hm.” Eiden tapped his chin. “I might have something that suits you.”His grin had a subtle twist to it. “Still in testing, though. You’d be helping me trial it.”

  Dru was too excited to notice the twist in that smile. “Thanks!”

  Only then did Eiden finally reach Zill.

  He took Twin Reaper like he already owned it, turning it under the forge-light. He ran a whetstone along the edge with quick, practiced strokes—refining, not changing. The blade sang softly.

  “So,” Eiden said without looking up. “How did this end up with you?”

  Zill straightened. “During the entrance exam, Lara saw me fight and thought it suited my style. She’s my master now.”

  Eiden’s brows lifted. “She finally took a pupil? About time. She hesitated for years.”

  “You expected that?” Violet asked.

  Eiden shrugged. “Lara’s changed since joining the council. Honestly, I thought she wouldn’t last a month—figured she only did it for Mortreaver.” He snorted. “But it’s been two years.”

  “The position has influence and benefits,” Dru said. “Why wouldn’t she want it?”

  “The benefits are tempting,” Eiden admitted, “but the responsibilities are suffocating.” He glanced toward the forge ceiling like he could see the sky through it. “Lara was happiest as a solo explorer. Being tied down to meetings and politics… it costs her freedom.”

  Violet murmured, half to herself, “Being a solo explorer… it really is something special, isn’t it?”

  “Absolutely,” Zill said, too excited to hide it. “You have all the freedom you want. You can vanish for years to explore unknown lands.”

  “Talking like you’ve done it,” Violet muttered.

  Eiden looked back at Zill, amused. “So you want to be a solo explorer, don’t you? Like my sister.”-

  Zill nodded, eyes gleaming.

  “She’ll make a great teacher,” Eiden said. “She learned plenty from Mortreaver.”

  Mel tilted her head. “Wasn’t she a prodigy? I thought she had no master.”

  “She was,” Eiden said. “But even prodigies need guidance.” His voice lowered slightly. “Mortreaver once saved her life. He’s the only one she’s ever truly respected.”

  Zill blinked. “Hard to imagine Lara needing saving.” His brows drew together. “Mortreaver pulled that off… He must be something else.”

  “He is,” Violet said bluntly. “Idiot. Mortreaver is the greatest explorer in history.” She leaned a little closer, like she was scolding him for being ignorant on purpose. “He earned his place without family or fortune. Just by himself.”

  “I know that—in a sense,” Zill complained. “But I’ve never actually seen him fight.” His eyes narrowed, fired up again. “I guess I need to become like them to earn the solo explorer badge or whatever.”

  Eiden shrugged. “Not really necessary. If you walk out that door and start exploring, who’s going to stop you?” He gestured lazily. “That’s what a solo explorer is. The system just overcomplicates it.”

  A sharp voice cut through the forge.

  “What do you think you’re doing, Eiden?” it snapped. “Telling an idiot like Zill that, is basically signing his death certificate.”

  Lara strode in, eyes bright with annoyance.

  Violet laughed under her breath. “Sounds about right.”

  “I’m not an idiot!” Zill protested.

  “Just stating the obvious,” Eiden replied smoothly. “Even an idiot figures it out eventually.”

  Lara smacked both him and Zill on the head.

  “Idiot little brother.”

  “What did I do?” Zill groaned, rubbing the new sore spot.

  “Consider it a warning shot,” Lara said. “If you ever do what he suggested and disappear without clearance—don’t come back.” Her eyes narrowed. “Or you might finally reach the height you want.”

  Zill straightened too quickly. “I would never give it any thought,” he lied through his teeth.

  “Right,” Lara scoffed. Then her tone shifted—less teasing, more serious. “Listen, Zill. It’s not just about surviving. If you don’t follow the rules, nothing you accomplish as a solo explorer matters.”

  “Even if I bring back rare predator corpses?” Zill argued. “New discoveries?”

  Dru stepped in, unexpectedly firm. “It would all be discarded.” He looked Zill in the eye. “How can anyone trust what you bring back if they can’t trust you?”

  Then he glanced at Lara, a little too innocent. “…Right, Master Lara?”

  Lara blinked. “Master?” She shook her head deciding to ignore it. “Yes.”

  She gestured toward the forge, toward the racks, toward the tools that existed because people recorded what worked.

  “An explorer’s most important trait isn’t strength,” Lara said. “It’s the ability to explore and record. Our maps, our routes, our safety—everything comes from those records.”

  “Who cares about records?” Zill snapped, frustration spilling out. “I just want to explore freely and hunt predators.”

  “Zelfish at it again,” Violet muttered.

  “Zelfish,” Lara repeated, amused.

  Mel’s expression hardened—real irritation this time. “You’re saying it like it’s a game. Solo explorers do more than hunt for fun.” Her voice turned sincere. “Their work keeps people alive.”

  “You are certainly correct, young lady,” a new voice added.

  Mortreaver had entered.

  “Zill,” he continued, calm and heavy, “you underestimate solo explorers. Their records keep others alive. Everyone has a role—for the sake of the city.”

  Zill spun around, bristling. “How do you know my name, old man—”

  Lara made a strangled sound. "Old Man!" She muttered.

  Then she burst out laughing.

  The forge went quiet around it—hot metal, hanging smoke, and Lara laughing loudly.

  Zill’s mouth stayed open for a second longer.

  And in that second, the voice clicked into place.

  His eyes widened. His spine locked straight. “Oh—sir.”

  He cleared his throat so hard it sounded painful. “You—uh. You gave the speech. A few days ago. At the hall.”

  Mortreaver’s mouth twitched. “I did.”

  Zill nodded far too fast. “Yes. Right. Of course. And—yes. I recognize their efforts.”

  Mortreaver let out a low chuckle. “Like master, like student.”

  “This short idiot is like me?” Lara managed between laughs, wiping her eyes. “You must be hallucinating already, old man.”

  “Who’s short!” Zill started.

  Mortreaver spoke over him, gaze sweeping the group. “So. You’re the novices who took down a Wolfmonger.”

  His eyes sharpened briefly. “Not bad.”

  Dru, Violet, and Mel bowed their heads respectfully.

  Zill was still muttering under his breath, trying to recover his dignity.

  Mortreaver’s gaze returned to him—longer this time, focused.

  “…Zill,” he said quietly, as if confirming something. Then, aloud: “So you are Zayril’s son.”

  Zill’s expression went cold.

  “A fine example of a solo explorer,” Mortreaver added, voice passionate.

  Zill’s jaw tightened. “A fine solo explorer?” His voice dropped. “Then why am I here alone?”

  Lara stepped in with a grin that was half-amused, half-sharp. “You’re the son of Zayril Najiroth?” She whistled softly. “Hah. That explains a lot.”